The Pole
by Ziska Ames
Summary: About a color guard experience of mine.


This story might not make much sense unless you know what color guard is   
or have participated in it. I'm sorry. I hope you still enjoy the story.  
  
  
The Pole  
  
  
It felt like it broke my bone. When the pole smacked hard into my   
arm I was sure my elbow was shattered. It felt shattered.   
  
It hurt. Like fire was surging through my entire arm, from my   
fingertip to my shoulder and past into my neck and down my back. The fire   
was there for a long time.   
  
My teacher, my coach, she didn't seem to care. I sometimes wonder   
if the word "compassion" was in her vocabulary. She told me it would be   
fine in a moment. It wasn't.  
  
A parent took me to the ambulance, the one that waits near a   
competition ready to rush the wounded off to the hospital. The ambulance   
has always scared me, because it represents the possibility of injury, a   
serious injury.   
  
Thankfully, my arm wasn't serious. The doctor, or whoever drove   
the ambulance, told me it was bruised and would be fine. It still didn't   
feel fine. I told him that and he laughed saying it wouldn't feel better   
immediately, but in a little while.   
  
He gave me an ace bandage and some ice and I rejoined my friends   
in the stands.   
  
I don't remember the awards ceremony. I don't know if we won the   
percussion award or if we got third overall. I just remember the pain and   
the fact that it hurt to bend my elbow.  
  
My friend, the one who had wielded the flag, kept saying she was   
sorry. I told her it was okay, that it didn't hurt too badly. That I was   
fine. Of course, I was lying through my teeth, but she didn't need to   
know that. I cared for her and didn't want her feeling sorry. I wanted   
her to enjoy the rest of the day.  
  
As we boarded the buses to go to the next contest, I got a new   
ice pack. My arm still hurt. I was beginning to wonder if something bad   
had happened and the paramedic had missed it.  
  
I couldn't march the next contest. I sat in the front seat of the   
little tractor that pulled the percussion equipment and rode out to the   
field. I watched as the pit unloaded and then I rode away with the   
tractor to watch the show from the sidelines.   
  
I watched my friends spin the multicolored pieces of silk and   
steel. I watched and pretended I was out there with them, instead of on a   
cold, fake-leather seat on the ten-yard line.   
  
I watched my friends attempt moves and drop their flags. I   
watched the girl I usually yelled at to keep in time, get out of time.  
  
I watched when all I wanted was to participate.  
  
For a time, I managed to forget my arm.  
  
After the show I again watched from the stands as the judges   
presented the awards. And again I can't remember what we got. The pain   
had come back in a flood and I was busy clutching my ice pack and trying   
to avoid the tightly packed bodies around me. I didn't want any one to   
bump my elbow. Needless to say, I couldn't keep everyone away and my   
elbow was being rather abused the entire time.  
  
Boarding the buses again I started on my fifth ice pack of the   
day. I just wanted to go home.  
  
I sat in the seat with my friend, I don't remember whom. I   
laughed when the others laughed; I was silent when they were. But I   
wasn't listening to the conversation, or the interesting game of Truth or   
Dare. I was concentrating on looking happy, so I could ignore the pain.  
  
Upon reaching the school I grabbed my day bag and stumbled off   
the bus to collect my uniform. I pulled the black plastic bag from under   
the bus and gave my day bag to my waiting mother as I put the uniform   
away in its designated area.   
  
The next morning I informed my parents of the pain in my arm that   
had refused to go away.  
  
They took me to the doctor. He poked my arm, measured my blood   
pressure, and did lots of doctor-like things as I sat and watched with   
pain-dulled eyes.  
  
He took a x-ray and discovered that I had torn my muscle. I was   
bleeding internally.  
  
He told me it would take a couple days, but the cut would heal.   
Then I would have to wait for the blood to dissipate. He told me it would   
hurt and that he could give me minor drugs, but if I wanted the heavy   
stuff, the stuff that really worked, I would have to stay in the hospital.   
  
I opted for the minor drugs.  
  
The next week was hell. My arm was constantly wrapped in an ace   
bandage and it throbbed as it healed. I wore long sleeved shirts not   
because it was cold, but because I hated when people asked what happened.   
It annoyed me to repeat the story over and over. I went to the nurse   
every two hours to take sleep-inducing pills. Sometimes I would fall   
asleep in class, but then my teachers would just wake me gently and send   
me to the nurse.   
  
I couldn't practice piano, or play in jazz band. I think that was   
the most frustrating thing. I wanted to play. I love to play with the   
band, even though I'm not very good. It wasn't much fun having to sit and   
watch my partner attempt to sight-read my songs.   
  
I spent most of my week watching. I watched in jazz band, I   
watched my friends playing cards, I watched the marching band practice. I   
watched and tried to remember the new stuff our coach taught us. It was   
hard. I wanted to do all these things that required two good arms, which   
I currently did not possess.  
  
When the week was over, my arm felt better. I could move it   
freely with only a very little pain when I stretched it too far. I   
relished in the fact that I could spin the pole again. I had missed the   
weight, even if it was unbalanced. I had missed the ragged feel of the   
practice silks. I had missed the dancing, too.   
  
I jumped into my piano practice, surprising my teacher with my   
newfound enthusiasm.   
  
I knew my arm would continue to heal for a while. But soon it was   
almost as good as new. It still hurts sometimes, but I don't normally   
notice it. The pain usually comes only when I spin. I wonder if the pole   
is taunting me.   
  
Color guard hurts me. I've hit my head so many times with the   
hard metal it's a wonder I'm not brain dead. Last year I hurt my arm,   
ankle and knee. This year I hurt my ankle and wrist.  
  
Color guard hurts me. But I love it. I love the pain-inducing   
pole.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Please R/R. 


End file.
